


Peach Cobbler for Supper

by sg_wonderland



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 14:41:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12683964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sg_wonderland/pseuds/sg_wonderland
Summary: Sometimes, a little comfort food goes a long way. An AU future fic. Daniel/Janet.





	Peach Cobbler for Supper

“Hey, baby, how was your day?” I get a glance at his face and know I shouldn’t have even spoken.

“Do you think I’m a good teacher?” Daniel asks as he absently kisses my cheek.

I grab him and force him to give me a proper kiss. “I think you are a wonderful teacher. Aren’t you doing a great job with our kids?” After Catherine’s first year of school, we sat down and had a serious discussion about the public education system in America. So Daniel asked the university to re-arrange his schedule so that he could home-school Catherine and later Madeline and Tempe. 

Cassie was already in high school so we decided to leave her where she was; as it was, with Daniel as a step-father, she breezed through high school in three years and went off to college at the tender age of just-turned-seventeen. I’m not saying it was easy at first; Cassie had had her mother all to herself far too long and she wasn’t eager to share me with this total stranger. But when she shyly asked him to come to parent’s night, we knew he had won her over.

“Then why do I feel like such a failure?” He opens the refrigerator and pours himself a glass of very sweet tea, something I’ve introduced him to in the ten years we’ve been married.

“Because you think everyone loves learning the way you do.”

He drops dramatically onto a stool at the kitchen island, hand over his heart. “You…you mean, they don’t?” 

“No, they don’t. The girls have already eaten.” Unfortunately, this happens two nights a week when Daniel teaches a night class.

“What can I do to help?” He takes a big drink of his tea, watching me clean up the kitchen.

“You can go get the girls into a bath. Then I’ll heat you up a plate of supper.”

*

Half an hour later, all three of the girls are clean, in their jammies and piled up in Catherine’s bed for their night-time story from Daddy. Catherine is sitting where she can see her father and I lounge in the doorway, looking at the little girl who is the spitting image of him. Those long-lashed blue eyes, the now damp, golden curls, the little bow-shaped mouth. 

The twins, clamoring over who gets to sit closest to their adored father, look like they came straight from my side of the gene pool, dark brown eyes and hair that is more red than anything. Daniel calls it auburn, but I just think that’s because he’s trying to avoid the generalization about redheads and temper. I tell him it’s because redheads get so much teasing; they can’t help but be angry. 

And as for him, he’s as handsome as he was the day I slid through a snow-covered intersection and hit his truck. We exchanged phone numbers purely for insurance purposes. I waited three weeks for him to call me until I finally lost all patience and called to ask him out on a date. “Okay, girls, time to get into bed. Your father’s had a long day.”

There’s plenty of “oh, Mom” and “but, Daddy, just five more minutes, pleasssssse!” before they say their prayers and are tucked in with hugs and kisses.

Daniel shuts the door behind them. “You know, eventually, we’re gonna have to split them up, give them their own rooms.”

“When they ask for their own room, get back to me. Come on, I’ve got your dinner waiting for you.” I take his hand and lead him back down to the kitchen. “Sit.”

He obeys and his eyebrows shoot upward when I set a big bowl in front of him. “What’s that?”

“That, Dr. Daniel Jackson, is homemade peach cobbler. I stopped at the farmer’s market on the way home from the hospital and lo and behold, fresh farm-raised peaches. Topped with vanilla ice cream.”

“Peach cobbler for supper?”

“Yeah,” I kiss him on the temple; when he’s seated, we’re almost the same height. “My granny always said on a very bad day, you deserve an extra special treat.”

He pulls me down across his lap. “Bad day for you, too?”

“It wasn’t one of my best,” I don’t talk much about my work in the peds ward but Daniel knows how much it upsets me when we lose a baby.

“Here,” he spoons me a mouthful of cobbler. “You need this more than I do.”

“How about we share it?” I snag a serving spoon from the woven basket on the table.

We sit there in the deepening shadows, the old farmhouse occasionally groaning as it settles for the night. Yeah, it might have been a rough day, but we have three angels sleeping up those stairs, another who will be home for the summer on Friday. 

And maybe tomorrow a baby who wasn’t supposed to live takes an unassisted breath. Maybe tomorrow one of those formerly laconic college students will suddenly ‘get’ it. Maybe tomorrow my husband won’t need cobbler for supper. But here, in this little slice of today, we both need that little extra comfort to get us through life.


End file.
